


That Girl (Took My Heart)

by ContinuoslyLivingAfraid



Series: Oh No (I Think I'm Catching Feelings Now) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, Gratuitous Use Of Fire Metaphors, Love at First Sight, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Sort Of, not melancholic like last time, yes beta we live like tommy in dsmp, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContinuoslyLivingAfraid/pseuds/ContinuoslyLivingAfraid
Summary: It was a fire; it blinded and burned him. But those flames turned to flowers fluttering sweetly in the wind.How?(Through time and acceptance.)------------The second work in a series featuring no happy endings.Can be read as a stand alone, but overall connected.Enjoy.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Floris | Fundy
Series: Oh No (I Think I'm Catching Feelings Now) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028886
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	That Girl (Took My Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> This one got away from me. It was a wild hare, and I am a hunter with no legs.  
> Still, I caught it, cooked it and its here to eat.
> 
> It's a different style than the last one. More action-heavy, I guess. Not something I'm used to honestly.  
> It might be why I had so much difficulty with it. Took way too long than I wanted it too. And I'm not too sure if I'm happy about it.  
> But oh well.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> oh and happy nearly new year :)

Summer afternoon.

The air was sweltering, and the sun’s rays shone sharper than swords. Drought parched the Earth, leaving everyone’s chapped lips desperate for a drink. And yet, nearly the entirety of the town’s populace had gathered at the square. Dust smothered the tens of thousands of people clustering together. The too-crowded crowd added onto the heat, leaving people to suffocate.

Fundy’s head spun.

His insides were aflame. With an unbalanced stance, he struggled to stand still. Squeezing between bodies left him grasping for fresh air, though he suspected that even outside the crowd, he would still be in threat of passing out. He saw the world through a vignette — black borders blurring from his peripheral vision. More so, a dirty, musty yellow tinged just about everything he saw.

It was all because of that blistering fire churning in his chest. That feverish uneasiness in his bones. The tension that was contracting his muscles for far too long, discomfort reverberating from each fibre.

Fundy knew that. He knew it too well.

‘But,’ the fox thought, ‘I also know that this cursed, horrible fervour has nothing to do with the summer.’

A heavy ball of spit slid down his throat, shredding his oesophagus like vodka and acid.

Beads of sweat trickled down beneath his mask as he stared. Stared at the sole reason why so many had come to the town square. Stared at the sole reason why people were willing to suffer outside when they could be cooling off. Stared at the reason why, once more, he was squirming in pools of torridity.

An announcement.

It hung right at the middle of the town’s bulletin board. On each of its corners, a pin tacked the poster tight. The size spanned about half of the whole board, maybe just a bit less. Equipped with a large illustration — not just text — and even colour, it was clear that whoever commissioned it was loaded. That was usually enough to start the chatter of the gossips, but it wasn’t just that:

The two characters featured on that poster were probably the most revered, respected and renowned figures in town.

Fundy’s eyes drifted onto one of them.

Green peppered his vision. The same colour as the spring fields blooming in his lungs, where a thousand flowers and fruits blossomed. They wound up his being, flooding his face, and leading a strawberry-flavoured flush to colour his cheeks as roses tainted his sight in hues of pink.

Before he spiralled further, he closed his eyes.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

But when he opened them, he was still seeing through a sea of light red. His fingers kept twitching. Sweat wouldn’t stop spewing from his skin. He was still flustered, and he was still warm. He was still in —

Fundy shook his head, a pitiful attempt at banishing those thoughts.

The heat must be getting to him. Or so he thought. In a frenzy, he rushed back home.

Yet, even after the sun had set and the moon had started shining, he was still stuck in that summer afternoon. Still squeezed between an overly crowded crowd. Still spinning round and around. Still snared by rose vines and strawberry leaves. Still staring.

Staring at the headline saying, ‘The Destined Duel: Dream vs Technoblade’.

Dream and Technoblade.

Who would those two be, you ask?

Most people would answer just about the same. That they were two heroic legends famed for their proficiencies and skills.

Technoblade was often called a beast. A boar mask hid his face as long, curling tusks framed his jawline. Pink hair, the length of his back, lashed around as he marched to wherever he pleased. His silhouette demanded attention. His stature commanded respect. His status as the Blood God’s Beloved Beast imposed fear. And if anyone didn’t know of his title, his voice — deep as open seas and cold as winter storms — warned them enough.

Dream was a newcomer. Some would say he brought with him a new age. He stood at least six foot tall, mostly built from gangly-looking limbs. Don’t let it fool you; he had plenty of strength and speed. Frankly unassuming, the clothes he wore were casual and unimpressive compared to Techno’s royal gown. But his mask, adorned with a simple painted smile, sent plenty running.

Oh, but Dream wasn’t just some typical newcomer; he was a god. Or at least, that was what people said.

Not that Fundy knew why people called him that. Nor did he really care.

To Fundy, Dream was nothing more than someone he wished he had never met.

When Fundy first saw Dream, a storm was raging across town.

Typical of spring, really. The weather had always been wild and had always given something new each year. In a way, the havoc was reassuring.

Fundy finished up cleaning his worktable. He set the tools into their places, locked the shelves tight and wiped away any residues. There may be a pounding tempest outside the doorstep, and monstrous phantoms may be flying about, but inside his studio apartment, Fundy rest assured.

He was checking the durability of his fox mask when he heard thumping above him.

His studio sat on the highest floor, so was that someone running on the roof?

It sounded too heavy to be a cat, and too fast to be a dog. Not that dogs climbed up roofs anyway. Too light to be a horse — a seemingly impossible event that had actually happened before — but there was no way those footsteps came from strange undead creatures. They didn’t sound like the right footsteps.

The thumps became faster. Before it maxed out in volume and force.

In the distance, a light thud could be heard.

Was that someone leaping from this roof to the roof across? It certainly wasn’t impossible.

Fundy set down his mask. He kept still, kept quiet and patiently waited for the next noise.

A sharp, quick sound pierced through the air.

The fox scrunched his eyebrows, tilting his head just slightly. He swore that that was the sound of —

Clang. Screech.

Fundy gasped.

“A trident!” His eyes shone with awe. “Someone must be hunting phantoms.”

He rushed to peek through his window blinds.

Outside, everything was in chaos. Bullet-like raindrops crashed against cobble. Harsh winds whipped against walls and windows. Blazing white lighting cracked the heavens into about a million pieces.

But Fundy managed to see it: a glowing, bluish-green blur against the black sky.

Following its trajectory led him to a tall, imposing figure standing atop the building across from Fundy's apartment. Though the rain had turned the world into nothing but smears, that person still stood clear. A silhouette against bokeh.

When the trident reached its target, the soft glow it emitted illuminated its owner. The phosphorescence was subtle and almost no help to bring the wielder to light. Only their hand was visible.

Mild disappointment brewed within him. The excitement thrumming through his veins at the notion that he could possibly see someone who owned something as mystical as a trident flickered and dimmed, almost like a flame in the rain without any form of shelter. But before it could die, the pouring stopped.

It was as if, by miracle, the universe heard Fundy’s wishes. The darkness lightened. Golden rays slipped past parting clouds. The grey dissipated away, baring a sky made of apatite shards into view. Warmth spilled onto the town, washing away any remains of the storm.

But Fundy did not spare any of his attention to the sky.

His mind was occupied with something — or more accurately, someone — else:

The trident-wielder.

In the light, their features became clearer.

Fields of green grew in Fundy’s vision — the person’s hoodie, apparently. Armour reflected the sun’s light, and leather straps twined around their chest and limbs. Water dripped from their fingers, encased in gloves, and the tufts of hair poking out from their hood. Instead of a face, the pathway-coloured strands framed a white mask with a painted smile.

At that moment, gone were the golden rays. Gone was the turquoise sky. Gone was the sun’s gentle heat, cradling the town after the storm. The world had disappeared, taken over by a bright white. Wind stopped. Time halted. Earth ceased spinning and the universe paused. There was no sound. There was no sight. There was nothing.

Nothing but that person before him.

Though their identifying traits remained unknown, something sparked inside Fundy. It had the gunpowder taste of awe and the burn of admiration. It coiled like a spring, ready to strike. It was a string pulled taut. Wonder chimed through his body like tiny little bells, swung by a rush of wind brought by the absolute magnificence of the figure.

As Fundy stared and stared, the sky grew clearer and clearer.

Streaks of light passed by that man’s shoulders. Due to their positions, the beams fell onto Fundy’s windows, grazing the fingers pressing down the slats.

And they turned him to gold.

The rays wound around him. From his arm to his back, crawling around his chest, down to his thighs, up to the very tips of his hair. Warmth enveloped him, enwrapping him wholly.

He felt small, miniscule.

Then, the trident-wielder moved.

A gloved hand reached up to their mask as they looked down. With a tug, the mask was off. The person shook their head, droplets flying out all over the place. The water reflected and refracted the light; Fundy swore that they were diamonds, not drops. The wielder tossed their head backwards, their hood falling in the motion. Abruptly, eyes flicked open: Rosemary and clovers swimming in seas of emeralds.

Fundy jerked.

The crack of window slats hitting each other echoed through the room, but Fundy didn’t hear a thing. 

The string within him had snapped. The spring had sprung. Wind chimes turned to church bells as his heart pulsed in prestissimo. A fuse was lit. Gunpowder was ignited. Fireworks erupted. Sparks. Lights. Colours. Sounds. Red, orange, pink and more red. Red turned to blue. Blue turned to white. White turned to explosions bursting in his being. They left him dazed and flushed and burning, as a searing heat rushed through his blood. Muscles melted. Blood boiled. Oxygen turned to plasma. But the heat kept growing and growing and growing.

Until Fundy forced it all to stop.

All that was left was a ringing in his ears.

A strange, empty feeling flooded him.

After that onslaught of senses, he felt strangely hollow. He felt cold. Cold in the worst way possible. Cold in the way that left him craving for it all again.

The supernova that blew up inside of him had left him as a caldera.

At that time, Fundy hadn’t known it was Dream.

All he knew was that a dirty-blonde person had done something to him the night before — something he might never recover from.

When morning came along, just about everyone was whispering about a ‘Dream’ character. About his legendary feats. About how he went out hunting in last night’s terrifying storm for phantoms. About his iconic blond hair and green eyes and mask.

And ‘Oh,’ Fundy thought, sorting through his shopping list in the market. Though his mask was meant to be cool and airy, it felt strangely stifling.

‘Dream’s a nice name.’

He stared at his list harder, yet he could read none of the words.

‘Fitting too.’

The fox didn’t sleep a wink the night after. Or the night after that. Or the night a week after that. Every time he closed his eyes, green veiled in gold greeted him, and an antsy warmth crawled all over his body — like little ants swarming his soul. Maybe he was coming down with a fever. Maybe he was growing ill.

In the end, he shook it off. Besides, it would all go away with time.

Right?

Fundy wasn’t sure about that anymore.

Winter aconites and crocuses wilted in the sun as petals of daffodils fell from their stems. Begonias blossomed instead, bringing bouquets of coleuses and mandevillas with them. They revelled in the summer sun, but shrivelled and faded not long after — their withered bodies gently draped by seas of sunset-coloured leaves falling from slumbering trees.

Time kept flowing. A river to the sea that is entropy.

Fundy kept feeling. A flame that disobeyed Prevost’s theory of heat exchange — forever keeping its heat — and the laws of thermodynamics — somehow getting hotter when everything around it was cooler.

But, all the while, Fundy kept living.

He woke up, got breakfast. He opened his tinker’s shop. He sold his services. He applied for a place in the Summer Festival, earning enough for another three months. He opened a stall in the Autumn Fair. And he was standing in said stall, thanking a customer for dropping by.

Mimicking the year, the day had come to a near close; the sun was sinking into the town walls. A handful of golden rays still managed to slide over the tall stone border, sneaking in to slow dance with the shadows casted onto cobble roads. Though the birds bid goodbye, the music didn’t stop. Crickets, bats and other creatures of the night continued the sentimental ballad.

Fundy reached for his stool.

Sighing, he brought a cup of tea to his lips; reveries and musings brewing in his brain.

Mostly, it was about the economics of the town. Ponderings of the nice change of pace. The recent surge in popularity. Or should he call it resurgence? Starting from somewhere around November last year, more people had come to trade, which was nice. Incredibly nice, really. There was, of course, discourse on who was to thank for the resurgence, but did it really matter? In the end, the town was steadily increasing in economy. Perhaps they could even see the old glory days —

“Hi!” a bright, chipper voice called out. “Would you happen to be Fundy the tinker?”

Fundy jolted. A scalding gulp of tea accidentally ran down his throat. He spurted and choked. Coughing to get a semblance of control.

He was flailing too. He quickly stood, hand beating his chest to free his airways. The fox was really angling for that ‘wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man’ aesthetic.

The man before him simply laughed.

It was made even worse by how long it took for Fundy to recompose himself.

The fox was mortified. Absolutely flustered. Still, he persevered.

“Yep!” the fox cried out, his voice a lot more high pitched than he intended it to be. He shot a forced smile at the blond. “How may I help you sir?”

Instead of answering, the man laughed louder.

Fundy could feel his cheeks colour red and his muscles spasming. He wanted to duck under the counter or pull down the stall curtain or, heck, maybe even slap the guy.

“Sorry! Sorry,” the other said.

He sure didn’t look sorry. A hand covered his mouth, undoubtedly to hide the smile ever-growing on his face. The man turned his head to the side. An endearing but futile attempt; Fundy could still see his quivering lips.

Fundy groaned, covering his face with his hands.

That really didn’t help things out; the guy had started sniggering again.

Fundy peeked through his fingers and took a good look at the other.

His messy, dirty-blond hair ruffled in the night wind. Freckles reflected the street lamp’s light, giving a glowing appearance. Mirth twirled in his eyes, green as the forest bordering the walls — maybe even the forest the man had come from if the twigs and leaves stuck on his clothes and hair were any indication. A belt hugged his waist tightly, equipped with a fat-looking pouch. And hooked to its side was a mask, white in colour with what appears to be a painted face. Wait —

“Dream?”

This time, the blond was the one taken aback. Unlike Fundy, however, he recovered pretty quickly.

“Yeah!” Dream burst out. “You’ve heard of me?”

Visions of a tall silhouette in golden light flitted in Fundy’s mind.

He swallowed, ignoring that bruising burn at the tip of his ears.

“You could say that,” the seller said, fixing his fox mask to relieve his finger’s fidgeting. “You’re a pretty popular guy y’know?”

Dream laughed, a bubbling sound that was reminiscent of songbirds on the first day of spring.

“Yeah,” a chuckle, “You could say that.” Green eyes met brown ones. “The name’s Dream, but I guess you already knew that…”

Fundy wasn’t exactly listening to Dream. He was too busy getting his gears to work again. His head was just jammed with thoughts and confusion.

The fox couldn’t tell how he felt about this meeting.

No, that wasn’t quite right.

He couldn’t tell how he was supposed to feel.

It had been months since the storm incident, but the fireworks and flames that night… It felt like it was just yesterday. Too many times had Fundy caught himself reliving that moment through unchecked reverie. And when he lingered on the memory too long, he would start wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t stopped his emotions so abruptly. He had done that — the daydreaming, the wishful thinking — before, again and again. In the middle of nights when he couldn’t sleep. In between work hours. In broad daylight as that five-letter name fluttered from gossiping mouths.

But right now, on the second-to-last evening of the Autumn Fair, Dream was more than just a fantasy.

Dream, in all his six feet glory, was in front of him.

And he was a customer.

Who Fundy was ignoring.

Shit.

Luckily, the other didn’t seem to notice.

“So,” Dream said. “Since you know me and, presumably, the things I do, does that mean I get a discount?”

Fundy forced out a grin.

“Hey now, just because you’re famous, doesn’t mean you get special treatment.” The fox pointed a thumb at himself. “I gotta pay the bills somehow.”

Dream snorted.

‘Cute,’ Fundy thought

“Though, maybe if we get to know each other, we can work something out.”

Silence.

He did not mean to say that aloud. He did not mean to start flirting — flirting! — with Dream. He did not mean to send himself into a downward spiral of sheer panic and stress as Dream — the man who had been gracing his thoughts since he first saw the other — looked at him in surprise. Maybe disgust. Maybe anger. Maybe confusion. Maybe —

Laughter.

Wait, laughter?

Wheezing, kettle-like laughter. From Dream. As if the blond was punched in the stomach right as he was force-fed laughing gas. Or he got injected by dopamine straight to the bloodstream before going through intravenous therapy with endorphins and serotonin in the drip bags. It honestly sounded kinda painful.

A part of Fundy wanted to ask if he was okay.

But a majority of him was far too traumatised to start talking again.

Slowly, the other man’s laughter died down. In its place, hilarity glinted and gleamed in forest green eyes.

“That’s a bit of a tall order.” Dream leaned onto the stall table. “But if the things here are as pricey as I heard they are,” he lowered his voice, “it might just be worth it.”

Fundy flushed. Dream was infecting him with a fever, mashing his mind to mush. And yet, he was sure that he’d be worse off if it weren’t for the cool waves of relief rippling through him. ‘Cause, right now, Dream was thinking that he was joking. And that was good. Very good.

Still, the fox was all nerves. But he had a customer to serve, and, by god, does he serve his customers well.

“‘Pricey’?” Fundy gasped in mock offense.

“I mean… that’s what people say.”

“I’ll have you know, all my prices are perfectly fitted for the quality of my services.”

“Oh?”

“Of course!” Fundy eased into his situation. “Shall I take you through a tour of my goods?”

Dream huffed out in amusement.

“No need, really.” Hands reached into a pocket. “I already know what I came for.

“I heard that you’ve got a fancy new design for compasses. Something about it being more accurate? Honest, I don’t have a clue about its mechanics, but I’m pretty interested in it. It’s not just that though…”

He smirked.

“I’ve got a,” he paused, “a challenge, let’s call it. For you.”

A piece of paper was pulled from the pocket.

“This is a spell, or a code, or whatever you want to call it.” The smirk stretched wider. “If you’re up for it,” he said as he put down the note on the table, “put it in the compass.”

Fundy stared at the paper. Torn at some places. A little crumpled and all folded up.

Across him, Dream sighed.

“Of course, I could do it myself but —”

“Deal.”

Fundy had cut Dream off before the other could finish his sentence. Something flickered to life in the fox’s eyes; it was like he needed to prove himself to Dream. To prove that he was worth… something. Fundy wasn’t sure what.

He bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating his next words. Despite his better judgement, he decided to go through a cheekier route.

“And who knows, Mr Dream,” the fox added with a grin that teetered between genuineness and forced, “I might be able to improve your code too.”

Dream laughed.

Fundy swore that there was an explosion in his chest.

The other didn’t leave him hanging though; Dream’s replying smirk was laced with danger. Forest green darkened in his half-lidded eyes as he dropped his voice to a mere whisper.

“We’ll see about that, Mr Tinker.”

Next thing Fundy knew, he was in the summer of the next year, scrambling away from the town square into his studio.

Months had passed since his meeting with Dream. And months had passed since he finished his order for Dream. Fundy had expected Dream to leave his life after all that with nothing but a cheque as proof that they had collided.

But he didn’t.

The commissions kept coming and coming. Each one more complex than the last. And if honest, Fundy would say he enjoyed it. The challenge, the provocation. It was fun. Probably the most fun Fundy had had since a very long time.

The bursts of fire and explosions kept coming with it too. The hazy dizziness. The light-weighted-ness. The bounce in his step that mimicked his heartbeat. The feeling that there’s something there — just out of reach, so close to revealing but at the same time so far — that he couldn't quite put the name on.

It grew on him.

Or maybe it was Fundy that got used to it.

Could he be blamed though?

Dream never failed to check on him. To spend some time with him. Even when there were no projects from him, Dream would drop by and chat.

Fundy would almost like it better if Dream wasn’t so nice.

That certainly would have been easier.

If Dream wasn’t nice, Fundy could have refused the more menial requests. Or he could’ve overcharged Dream, scam him for all his worth. Then, he wouldn’t have accepted Dream’s offers to meet his friends. Or flirted with Dream throughout the whole meeting. He wouldn’t have jokingly-but-not-jokingly asked Dream out every chance he got. And he wouldn’t have yearned or longed or wanted.

If Dream wasn’t so nice, Fundy wouldn’t be filled with butterflies, flower petals and dreams of green eyes framed by blond hair and a charming smile.

But Dream was nice.

So Fundy had no choice but to include the other in his life.

It was the following weekend after Fundy’s meltdown in the town square — the weekend when the Dream and Technoblade duel occurred.

The fox was sitting between two brunet British boys, each cheering for one side.

Truthfully, he hadn’t been paying much attention.

His eyes followed the flurry of movements from both sides: the whips of pink hair, the light blue slashes, the thrashing of a red cape, the agility of green. He knew the current score — a tie — of the battle. He screamed and cheered at appropriate moments.

The details, however, escaped him. He was never much of a fighter; he couldn’t tell exactly how skillful both men were. He couldn’t tell the whys and hows of their techniques.

But he still thought it was amazing.

Metal on metal. Clashing blades. Rapid strikes of silver against blazing blue.

Simply put, it was beautiful. There’s a rush of adrenaline in his veins even though he’s just sitting down. Thunder rolled in his eardrums in time with the audience’s roars. He wanted it to never stop.

But who would?

This was the battle of the best.

Two apex predators pitted against each other. All their fangs and claws were bared; no punches were pulled.

Axe in hand, Technoblade charged. He swung — a lightning strike. And like the following thunder, ceramic shards crashed onto cobble. Dream’s mask, shattered, dripped with lycoris-red.

Before the other could take another swing, Dream rushed away. Bleeding, bruised, he stood defensive. His sword quivered in his hold. A sharp gasp shredded down his throat. Techno was stalking towards him. Heavy breathing marched in tempo with Dream’s fleeing steps as his opponent stomped closer and closer.

The beast lunged.

Dream dodged.

Not a second was spared when Dream decided to counter —

But it was futile.

The clatter of a sword against stone silenced the crowd.

With a kick, Techno struck Dream down.

His foot on Dream’s chest and his axe on Dream’s neck, the Blade stood victorious.

The crowd howled. Wild as wolves and coyotes and hyenas. Crazed vultures feasting on shed blood. They hollered. They yelled. They screamed praises to the victor. They shrieked for trial in Dream’s name. They called for an encore, a repeat, another round.

But their roars were mere whispers to Fundy.

Amidst the roaring and howling and the cheering, Fundy saw something.

Something that hit him and hit him hard. Something that opened his eyes. Something that made him see what he never had before.

The looming walls of the stadium fell down, crumbling like they were nothing to begin with. The town borders dissipated. He could see the world around him. He could see that it stretched for miles and miles. That it was boundless, never-ending and forever continuous. He saw the universe. He saw the stars aligning. He saw galaxies untouched and unreachable. He saw it all.

And he saw it in Dream.

Saw it in his shocked face as Techno bested him. Saw it in the sun-like smile when he took his opponent’s hand. Saw it in his cheerful, friendly and ever-so-bright eyes.

Déjà vu.

It was almost an exact replica of that night. The night that Fundy saw Dream. The night that Dream restructured Fundy’s life.

This time, instead of a storm, it was under the sun. Instead of the clouds parting, the sky darkened, filtering the light till only a few handfuls passed through. Instead of Dream standing — tall and imposing — across Fundy, it was Fundy high above Dream.

The streams of sundrops that slipped past the clouds were spotlights on Dream.

Under the light’s touch, his hair turned to bronze. Green irises were speckled with gold till they became a roof of swaying leaves under spring sun seen from underneath. His armour shone aether-blue, chipped and scarred from battle. Beneath them, torn clothes like trampled forest floors splayed over rough, beaten grey. Their contrast made the grass-green cloth glow — a technicolour meadow on a black-and-white screen. Rips and cuts adorned his arms, and cardinal flowers bloomed from the rivulets of red upon his Helios-kissed skin.

Ethereal.

With just one look, the sight had breathed life into him; the breath plucked Fundy’s heartstrings in an enchanting melody. With just one look, the taste of sweet spring berries coloured his tongue. With just one look, Fundy felt a mead growing in his chest.

Roses made of amethyst petals and iolite thorns blossomed. Tulips budded on his nerves and nodes, surging signals of awe — of adoration — through every inch of his being. Carnations took root in his heart; its pedicels entwined in coronary arteries and the cusps of valves. His pulse pounded fast against his chest as a thousand scarlet flora burst through his skin. Petals of azaleas, camellias and petunias painted him pink as the scent of poppies smothered Fundy till his only coherent thought was of verdelite eyes and wheat-coloured hair.

Instead of pain and confusion, it was soft. Sweet even. Instead of a sudden bomb of senses, it was the bloom of something that had been growing for over a year.

This time, instead of forcing it to stop, Fundy let it grow. He let his feelings flourish and thrive.

He let himself become Keukenhof.

Summer afternoon.

The air was fresh as pines and lemons, and the sun’s rays shone gentler than feathers against silk. A never-ending abundance of life prospered within a particular fox’s heart, leaving him in want of something he knew he could never have. And yet, he made no attempt to run. Flowers and fireworks may have brightened his vision till he turned blind, but they pushed the world and all its weight away; breathing had never felt freer.

Fundy’s heart bloomed.


End file.
